“No one knows us here. We can do whatever we want,” she said, and did just that. She was dancing on the beach in a blue bikini. I was watching, awed at her easy grace, her freedom. A few others were just as transfixed as I was. I didn’t mind. Who wouldn’t want to see her? She wasn’t my girlfriend (though we were more than “just friends”) and I’m not jealous or possessive anyway. She was the best of what was and what could be — and she wanted to spend her time with me.

I was 17. She was 16. It was 1993. We’d done an island drop onto a beach off Cedar Key, a pretty penny for me then — but worth every cent and more.

These lines from Mackenzie Porter’s song “These Days” brought this back, another lovely memory of my dead friend.

Every time you smell sunscreen
Baby, do you see me dancing on a ‘Bama beach?
Do you smile at the thought of it?

I do smile. I do.

I’m so glad I have that memory but also so angry that she’s dead. I will kill god in revenge.